


HD 'Just Do It'

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU; EWE. Some angst-well, more flangst than anything. Longer drabble and very full of talk and no shagging, sorry! This is a Gift!Fic for ficreader76 , phoenixacid and animaven , with hugs from Tiger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	HD 'Just Do It'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixacid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixacid/gifts).



"You should do it."

"I don't want to 'do it', damn it! It'll only be bollixed up by something, Pans! Look what happened last time!"

"I still say you should, Draco." She batted her lashes and patted his knee under the table. "What d'you have to lose, anyway?"

"Only my pride, my sanity—my healthy sense of self-preservation. Which, dear girl, is quite, quite undiminished, may I remind you? I'm no fool."

"You're a coward, that's all. You won't take a risk when you clearly must."

"I'm not a coward, either, you hag! I've survived plenty, thanks so much—far too much shite to be insulted by the likes of you, Parkinson. So shut it, Pansy. Give over. It's not going to happen."

"He's watching you, Draco," Pansy nodded knowingly to the Gryffindor table, where Potter sat, drinking his pumpkin juice carelessly and gazing blearily at the toast rack. "This is your chance, if you'd just take it."

"And so what, Pansy? That means a pile of beans to me—and I mean nothing to _him_."

"What? Come on, Draco—get with the programme! It means he's potentially…interested, all that staring he does! Calf eyes, Draco! He's making them at you, all the time now. You should take advantage of that. You're a Slytherin. Use it, coward. Work it!"

"Sod off, Pansy. He's only watching out of habit. It's called 'Constant Vigilance.' Moody used to natter on about it endlessly in class—remember?"

"Well, then it's a bleeding three year old habit of 'constant vigilance', Draco!" Pansy huffed. "Which is more than passing strange for any teenaged male! It means something—something good! Make the most of it, Draco—I dare you!"

"Stuff it, Pansy. I'm not planning on going near him with a ten-foot pole, now or ever. Just cease and desist, please; you won't change my mind."

"Really? I won't, then?"

"Really. No. Absolutely not." Draco was adamant; even his chewing was stonily so. He did it deliberately under Pansy Parkinson's chary eye, and continued unabated even after she took up the subject once more.

"Well," she announced, " _I_ still think perhaps a simple Owl card, wishing him a happy Christmas, might be in order. Or, darling, you could give in to your baser instincts and make use of that mistletoe ball positioned so conveniently over the entrance to Charms. Snog him, out of the blue. Flitwick would be delighted, I'm sure, to see it finding its purpose."

"I don't think so, Pansy. He's got no love for me, even now, barmy old git. None of them do—here on sufferance, remember? And only because I couldn't take the NEWTS in France without a stupidly lengthy waiting process. Once I'm through those, I'm out of here. And I can't bloody be out of here soon enough!"

"But, Draco, what about what you were talking about in June, when I stayed over for that week with you and your mum—remember? There, at the Manor, when your Auntie Bella was trying to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord? Didn't you say you felt some sort of…connection? An understanding? I'd've thought you'd try—"

"Look, Pansy, I'm not _trying_ anything, alright? If I were going to, I'd've done it ages ago, back at the Trials or maybe right after the last battle. Point is, it's not a viable option now and I'm not planning on forcing the issue, either, so drop it, alright? No more nagging."

"Dracoooo!" Pansy crossed her arms, pouting. ""You're a bleeding, fuddy-duddy, head-up-your-arse stick in the mud, you know that? You really _are_ a coward—not kidding this time. You should be using every single thing you can lay hands on to make your way into Potter's good graces and you're not! I don't understand it, Draco! What happened to you?"

"The Dark Lord happened, Pansy. Fenrir happened. Professor Burbage happened—and that awful Fiendfyre. Now please, _please_ , for the love of Salazar, stop. I'm not making a single move on Potter, no matter what you say or how you attempt to goad me. He is strictly off-limits, no matter what your silly schoolgirl mentality tells you. There's no great love lost between us and I'm perfectly content with that. Leave it."

"Hah! I don't believe a sodding word, Draco Malfoy! You _do_ want him; you've _always_ wanted him, one way or another, and you have a perfect opportunity to make it happen and you won't take it! You're a bloody arse, Draco—I wash my hands of you!"

"If only you really would, Pans, and stop saying you're going to, I'd be more than content," Draco scowled, stirring the remnants of his porridge into a frenzy. "Look, are we about finished with this subject for this morning? Because it grows very, very wearisome to always be subjected to your completely cockamamie views on my so-called 'feelings' for Potter every single damn day of the week. I'll start sitting with Theo and Blaise, instead, of a morning. I will!"

"Of course I'm not finished! I'm never finished with this topic—you know that, Draco! It's valid, you arse—he wants you, too, if only you'd do something positive! Maybe, just maybe if you put whatever's left of your courage where your heart is, I might be finished, but not till then-no. I'm not planning on sitting back and just watching you ruin what's left of the best years of your life, dunderhead. That would hardly serve the purpose."

"These are hardly _that_ , Pansy," Draco remarked, lounging back on the bench and abandoning his breakfast altogether. "Hardly. The 'best years of my life' will likely start _after_ I'm finally shed of Hogwarts—and the UK, for that matter. All the really brilliant Potion's opportunities are based out of Geneva these days, as you full well know—that's where Theo's going, isn't he? I'd be an utter arse to stick around here, where there's no future for me, and foolishly attempt to ride out all the shite I'll be handed just for being a sodding Malfoy. Even Mum has accepted this—I've her blessing."

"Hmmm," Pansy remained skeptical; Draco could tell by the tapping of scarlet-painted nails on the handle of her tea cup. "That's all very well and good, Draco, if you're only thinking of your career, but you're still wasting a perfectly brilliant chance at actually having a relationship! It's criminal, that's what! The old you would've been chatting him up at the Trials, for god's sake! I just can't accept you've lost all your old willingness to take chances—maybe kick some Gryffindor arse while you're at it! This would be such a wonderful chance to show that Granger the what-for—and the Weasel, too! I know you'd just die to have a chance at making him look like an arse—you always did before, Draco!"

"Pans, it's not 'before' anymore," Draco sighed, and carefully kept his line of sight off the environs of Potter and his minions. "It's 'now', and things have changed drastically. _I_ have changed, also drastically. I know what's what now; I recognize my limitations. Potter may not hate me but he's never going to be anything more than an acquaintance—just accept it. And _stop_. I really don't need you on me endlessly over something that's simply never going to happen."

"Uh-huh," Pansy nodded. "Sure, Draco. You continue to tell yourself that and I'll continue to watch Potter, watching you. You do realize that every time you look at me, he's looking at _you_? Every. Single. Time, Draco dear. He's just as shy as you are—it's darling, really."

"You're deluded, Pans. You should consult a damned Healer and get a script for it! He is not!"

"He _is_ and I can prove it, too!" Pansy squealed. "A simple dip into your father's Pensieve will prove it. I remember all of them, Draco—every single separate instance of his eyes being stuck on you, which, by the bye, now number in the hundreds this term alone! But…" she drawled, "if you want to continue your life completely barren of any sort of personal satisfaction, far be it from me to tell you differently. Your loss, Draco Malfoy, your loss. Just don't blame me if Potter takes up with some-some _girl_ instead of the one he's really gagging after—you!"

"Completely mental, Pansy. He is not, has not and _will_ not ever gag after me, as you so crudely put it. And I, my little schemer, am well beyond this idiotic schoolyard shite. I need my NEWTS to gain a decent position and that is the sole reason I am here. End of story; no more to be said about it, alright? Potter doesn't enter into this equation and never has. Likely, he's just here for the same reason—to get it over with and move on. Someone passed it onto Millie Bulstrode that he's slated to be entering Aurors next autumn—and more power to him, I say. We'll all feel a damn sight safer with Potter on duty, yeah?"

"Well, good, Draco!" Pansy sat forward with a bright smile stretching her red-painted lips. She poured herself more tea with a jaunty air and topped up Draco's cup, unasked. "Very good, darlin! There's a commonality between you—future career planning! You can discuss that with him, then—in private. Right after you Owl him that nice friendly Christmas greeting I just mentioned, along with an invite to meet up and do things-dating things! Go see a Muggle film; go have coffee in Hogsmeade together and talk things over like real men do in this 'new age of peace' they all blather on about, yes? Ways to mend fences between Purebloods and Mu—the other sort, right? Right! Sounds an excellent plan! You'll feel much better after, both of you—I'm sure. 'Specially if you follow up with some snogging action."

"Pansy! Do you never, _ever_ stop?" Draco smacked his forehead with a narrow palm. "Fucking Hades, Pansy—for the last time, he's not interested in me and I'm not planning a single damned thing to change that! There's no point! There never was, to be honest."

"Coward!" Pansy shook a motherly finger at him. "If you don't try your chances now, Draco, when will you ever? You're young; you're rich—you're handsome! You're allowed to act a bit of a fool—take advantage of it! Ask him out! Send him an Owl—get to know him better! Don't simply lie there like a sodding bathmat and take it, Draco Malfoy! I won't let you!"

Draco buried his head in his hands, finally giving into the tension headache that had dogged him since waking. His tea slopped where he still clutched it, but he didn't bloody care. Not now—not a speck or a smidgeon.

"Theo!" he called out, driven at last to the wall. "Theo, come get this silly bint of yours and take her away! She's handing me heartburn and headache and it's too damned early for that!"

"Huh?"

Theodore Nott had had the pleasure of losing both parents to the wrong side of the recent war—but he'd also lost his maternal great-uncle, the wealthy one, and had been taken in by the widowed Mrs. Parkinson, which was considered a great stroke of good luck. Now affianced to the flower of the Parkinson house, Pansy, Theo was set for life. And _he'd_ been planning on decamping to Geneva as well, knowing full well when to cut his losses. Merrie Olde Englande was still a rough place for those with Death Eater connections, no matter if once-removed or if it had indeed been thrust upon one at a too-early age.

"Oh, snap! Sure, mate, but give me a moment, will you? I'll come collect her as soon as I'm finished my toast," Nott called back, over the intervening heads of a host of noisy Sixths, who were far too pushy in Draco's opinion, and who'd had kept up their assault on the Senior's end of Slytherin table far longer than they should've. No respect given in Slytherin, still—that was the way of it. Just as dear Pansy had no respect for Draco's strenuous objections to being latched up with Potter.

"Right," he nodded back at Nott, feeling quite thankful for the coming intervention. "See that you do, mate—she's sending me mental already and I'd rather not, it being so early, yet. Haven't finished my tea, even."

"Draco!" Pansy huffed. "I have not! I'm only looking out for your best interests, arsehole! Stop being so mean!"

Theo knew it—the dreary reality of things; Draco knew it—Pansy knew it, too, but she just liked to fuss and bother. These were the true facts of life in the Wizarding circle, post Voldemort, at least for the losers. There was no gainsaying it—just as there was no argument that Harry Pitter was bloody fixture and likely to end up as Minister of Magic by popular demand in the very near future. All the more reason to vacate his homeland, Draco had decided. If one can't beat them, fleeing was a very good option.

"You have, Pansy, just as you always do, been yapping away at me since early morning. And always about Potter, too. Isn't there anything else you can think of to talk about? Something I might actually be interested in discussing?"

Draco sneered balefully at his bacon, which was harmless enough, though a little too crisp for his liking.

"I'm only presenting options for you, Draco—things you should be considering and _would_ be, too, if you hadn't had your manly ego stomped on by that awful old madwoman who was your aunt. What did she used to call you? Little boy, was it? I'd have to AK her, Draco, if she'd done that to me!"

"Huh!" Draco scoffed, interest caught, as he really didn't wish to eat his bacon, after all. "Don't think I didn't want to, Pansy! Auntie, though, for all her total drooling spots of raving, was one hell of a powerful Witch. My uncle Rabastan didn't marry her because he wanted to, you know—she hexed him bollockless till he popped the question, when they were in their last year here at Hogwarts. I suppose she took the only way available to her to get out from under the influence of her parents—spot of being knocked up and early marriage. It was the Sixties or something; ancient history, you know, and they _were_ awful, by all accounts, the elder Blacks. Pity she went and lost her all marbles, after miscarrying it. I'd have appreciated a little sympathy from her instead of those frigging Crucios she used to hand out, right and left. I used to be her favourite nevvie when I was younger, you know. Bloody barking cunt!"

"Hmmm," Pansy narrowed her eyes, staring off into the middle distance. "Mummy said something about that once—that Bellatrix LeStrange had suffered so many miscarriages when she first married, she was a little addled, after. Her chemistry had gone sour or something—left her ripe for any charlatan waltzing down the pike, so no wonder, eh? Like old Mrs. Black, I guess, though in _her_ case Mummy told me it was sheer bloody-mindedness. She was known to be a real battleaxe, that one—one of the Old, _Old_ Guard."

"Still is," Draco chuckled, delighted for some reason, though perhaps it was because Pansy had finally gotten off the subject of Potter, "—or so Blaise heard tell from the Patil twin he was shagging," he added, waggling his eyebrows in a mock leer. Pansy giggled her pleasure at the gossip.

"I heard _she'd_ heard from Finnegan via Longbottom that old Walburga was still tacked to the Black House's foyer wall in Town," Draco went on, lowering his voice confidentially, "—and Potter and Granger both can't manage to dislodge her! Hah! Serves him right, that pompous arse—he, too, should be saddled with _my_ family! There's a fitting revenge!"

Oh! That's so petty of you, darling!" Pansy squealed. "Such a vicious thing to wish upon the Hero, you ponce! I adore it when you're like this-so delicious evil!"

She would've gone on to say more, of course, and likely try to jolly Draco into being even more malicious, but thankfully Theo finally fetched up at their end of the bench.

"G'morning, Pans. Ready?" he asked, dropping a fond hand to her shoulder. She smiled up at him, all at once flirtatious and sweet-as-pie.

"Yes, darling," she cood. "I was just waiting on you."

Enlivened a bit, Draco drained his cup, but speaking of Potter led to looking at Potter and looking at Potter led to a certain familiar reverie. Potter, fortunately or unfortunately, wasn't glancing _his_ way at the moment, so Draco had the leisure to look all he liked. No, Potter had his eyes trained on the Weasel and the Weasel's little sister—that bint Draco had been told Potter snogged before all and sundry the horrible night Dumbledore died.

That had been purely awful—Draco still shuddered at the memory of it. Wincing, he let his gaze rest on Potter's lashes. With a wandless little Charm, he could manage the personal version of the Omnicular Spell—and thus be graced with every small detail of the Golden One's appearance, up close, in vivid detail.

Better to eyeball Potter surreptitiously instead, now that Theo had come over to collect his bride-to-be, scheming wench she was—and far too talkative. There was no point in attempting to be matey with Potter _now_. It was by far too late in the season; he's blown his chance and there was no circumventing it.

No matter how long the git's lashes were; no matter how kissable was that small indent at the base of his throat.

No—never mind _that_.

"Draco! Draco! Pay attention, dolt!" Pansy jiggled his shoulder, till Draco dragged his eyes away and adjusted his vision. Stupid enhancing spell was always very fiddly, and he wasn't so good at it he could do it with ease before he was fully conscious and caffein-adjusted.

" _What_?" he growled, feeling righteously bloody-minded himself. "What _now,_ Pansy? I should Owl that card you were going on about? The chatty one that'll fuck my life up completely? Or just saunter on over and blithely ask Potter to walk out to Hogsmeade this weekend, holding hands all the way down to the village? I'm certain he'd leap on the chance to accompany me— _not_. Or did you have something even more daring in mind? Broom closets? Love Potions? Secret Santas?"

"Oooh! Nasty, nasty temper, darling!" Pansy cooed, arching at brow at him from where she now stood, balanced on illegal heels, with Theo by her side, holding both his book bad and hers. "You clearly need more sugar in that tea of yours. But no, actually. I was only making you aware Slug's class is in a mere fifteen minutes. You'd better hurry it up, slowtop. You've not brought your things."

"Oh…yeah, thanks, Pans," Draco lifted a rueful shoulder. "I will. Just have to nip back, so go on ahead if you're going—I'll catch you up in a few moments."

"See you there, mate," Theo nodded, and whacked his back in a friendly pat.

They'd gotten sort of chummy now they were both planning on similar sorts of career paths, he and Nott. And if Nott was to marry Pansy, then there was no question—he'd be roped into their lives willy-nilly for the remainder of his, knowing Pans. She was one of _those_ females, Pansy was. Never letting go and exactly the sort to be organizing Slytherin class reunions at her Club when she was in her forties, just to show off her still svelte figure and three lovely daughters.

Draco didn't envy Nott; he didn't envy Blaise, either. Free and fanciful was Blaise Zabini and just as insouciant after the war as before. It helped, naturally, that he'd not had the Dark Lord as a houseguest, and too, fleeing to the Continent at first op had been most beneficial for Blaise's high-strung temperament.

Draco's strings, on the other hand, had rather come undone. There was, he felt, no other rational way to explain this nagging fixation on Potter, an uncomfortably prickly good/bad feeling he should have mercifully executed and buried a very long time ago.

It was puerile and pointless; one of those unnamable, unmentionable, unmanageable things, like so much of the rest of the litter that cluttered up the Malfoy's ravaged household. But they'd sort it, he and Mum; it would only be a matter of time. Just as NEWTS and his much-anticipated freedom were a matter of time. He'd waited out worse; he could do this.

With a heartfelt sigh, Draco rose to his feet, laying down his napkin on the table's sticky, greasy surface absentmindedly as he mentally scanned the details of the coming day—which would be, no doubt, just as any other.

He'd need his bag pretty quickly, so he really should hurry it up, as the Slug was still not particularly fond of him, nor likely to tolerate any tardiness. Potter, naturally, could skive Potions class till he was blue in the face and the Slug would still worship at his feet—but that was Potter, not Draco, and Potter was always a special case, requiring special handling. He wasn't some poor SOB like Draco Malfoy, dealing with the icky reality of being the all-time loser.

And, really—no matter what Pansy said—anyone worth his salt didn't bother chatting up 'special cases' when he wasn't beyond positive the outcome was a sure thing—a bull's-eye, an open-and-shut. Draco did, after all, realize the full extent of his own limitations— _now_.

As an acknowledged 'loser'.

He was just turning away from his half-consumed breakfast and the chattering mass of students still lingering in the Great Hall, his heel cocked at the ready, his head angled down sufficiently so that the opaque sweep of longish hair that brushed across his gathered brows (which, coincidentally allowed for one last lengthy glimpse of Potter, who had his toast triangle stuck in his mouth like a veritable wild animal and his spilling-over-the-seams book bag slipping off a thin, bony shoulder) would disguise the direction in which he was gazing when _it_ happened.

'It' took the form of a twinkle in the air; a sprinkle of fairy dust, glittering and tumbling. A musical note sounding, high and clear and cheery, and the aromatic holiday smell of cinnamon pine cones and frankincense, burning.

And 'it' resolved its sparkly floating self into an origami peacock the size of a small barn owl, composed of the finest grade snow-white parchment and trailing a bounteous tail of intricately folded feathers—which, with dazzling speed, unfolded mid-air before Draco's very nose.

_**Malfoy**_ **,** it read, in bright green ink—the exact colour of Potter's eyes and the Slytherin coat-of-arms. Draco blinked rapidly at it, lips parted in wonder. This was a fine feat of skill—worthy of a Professor, but no one—no one—would send him such a card, not for Christmas. Not even Pansy, dear girl. Certainly not Blaise or Nott or any of the others—and not even Mum would think to send a Charm like this one, delightful as it was.

_**Malfoy,** _

_**Here's wishing you a Happy Christmas.** _

_**Not to beat around the bush, (or maybe it should the tree, to be seasonal, yeah?) but I've seen you watching me. You've been doing it for a while now. It leaves me very curious, that does. Seems suspicious.** _

_**Tell me, do you watch me because you're interested? Maybe in settling up a few matters of old business between us—or perhaps in something more? If it's the 'something more', it's Hogsmeade weekend coming, you know, and Hermione tells me you**_ _ **are**_ _**interested, Malfoy. She swears it's 'more', too.**_

_**You know what, Malfoy? She's never once been wrong, not our Hermione. In fact, I've got five Galleons on her being in the right once again, and you**_ _ **do**_ _**want Ron to be the loser, don't you? I bet you**_ _ **do**_ _ **, you git.**_

_**Yes, so here's the plan. Meet me after Potions, alright, in the corridor? We'll talk about Hogsmeade for this weekend.**_ _**No—better yet, save me a seat in class, won't you? No time like the present, right? I think we've likely wasted enough time already.**_

_**Cheers!** _

_**Potter** _

_**(but you'd better call me 'Harry' in Potions, and make sure to do it loudly enough for Ron to overhear, because I'm short on funds at the moment—and I'll be needing it for Saturday coming, won't I?)** _

 

 

***


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